


Office Supplies Annoy Me and I Love You

by ARedHairing



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 21:33:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1914609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ARedHairing/pseuds/ARedHairing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morgan has issues with office supplies, Reid, and the lack of an Easy Button.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Office Supplies Annoy Me and I Love You

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies to William Goldman for the title (I blame Xtine).

It started with paperclips.

Morgan knew how stupid that sounded, you didn’t need to tell him. It wasn’t a thought he would share with _anyone_ , ever, but he wouldn’t need the second opinion regardless: he told himself how stupid it was often enough already.

Paperclips. Metal or plastic coated and in ridiculous colors, good for holding papers together; popping open unpowered disc drives (ask Morgan about that, _please_ , he’d love to pretend he had a valid reason to bitch); and for throwing across your desk to land in the middle of the papers Reid was trying to read, until Hotch caught you and gave you the _look._

At first, it was just the bent ones; they were twisted and angled, twirled about with purpose, and he seriously refused to think too much about that. Or tried to, at least, but think about it he did, entirely too often.

Recently, though, the game had progressed to those paperclips that hadn’t been touched yet, hadn’t been played with, hadn’t been bent, the ones that were still _usable._

And from paperclips it had progressed to pens, and then to pencils. Straws. Staples. Paper. Cups. Watches. An endless list of every day supplies and necessities that continually set Morgan on edge. 

He was sitting at his desk, wishing for the weekend-they were off-duty, no work, no cases, and he just wanted to be _home_ when JJ handed him a stack of folders, paperclips visible and shining on the papers within. He grunted, annoyed that had been what caught his attention first, and, after she’d turned away, threw his pen down on his desk in disgust. He ignored the surprised stares of his co-workers as he made his way with single-minded determination toward the coffee pot and momentary salvation. 

He could feel their eyes on him: JJ, Prentiss, Reid. For a genius, the Boy Wonder had remained surprisingly clueless, but Prentiss… Morgan wasn’t so sure that snapping his hatred of office supplies at her well-meant “are you all right?” had been the wisest thing he’d managed this week. He’d meant it as a flippant answer to a question he’d had no intention of actually answering, but Emily was too smart for that and they both knew it.

And JJ? He loved her as much as he loved any of them; she was part of him as much as they were. But he'd never managed to move past what had happened in Atlanta, to forgive her for splitting with Reid even though she'd been no more culpable than he had. So, no, they didn’t talk, not about something this personal.

The last thing he needed right now, however, was Reid asking the questions he could see in the younger man’s eyes. Chances were he’d have even less subtlety and tact than Prentiss.

Reid was brilliant, for as oblivious as he could be, and could normally read body language very well. (Morgan wished he hadn’t taken a sip of coffee at that moment, he’d swallowed wrong and now was coughing and trying to catch his breath). Too well. 

Normally.

“I don’t suppose it’s any better than usual?” Reid asked, tilting his head but otherwise not mentioning Morgan’s accidental inhalation as he poured his own mug full of the thick, black semi-liquid that otherwise passed for coffee. Morgan raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t think so,” Reid continued dryly, tapping in more sugar. 

Morgan watched as Reid took two of the red stirring sticks and stifled a groan.

Reid frowned, following Morgan’s gaze downward and misunderstanding his discontent. “It’s the only way I can drink it,” he offered.

“I know that.” And Morgan _did_ know that. He knew that Reid took about ten sugars in his coffee, and if he ordered it with less he’d always add several packets more when he thought no one was watching. He never drank it down to the bottom, either; never drank further than exactly half-way before tossing it. But they all knew that. _Really_. 

“Are you ready for the holidays?” Reid asked, pulling Morgan out of his internal categorization of Reid’s habits. 

“I haven’t even started shopping yet,” Morgan confessed with a shrug. He did most of his shopping when he got to Chicago. He threw his own stirrer into the trash and turned to leave when Reid’s voice stopped him cold.

“What’s your deal with... office supplies?” Reid asked abruptly, letting the question out on a whoosh, as though it had taken all his nerve to physically ask. Knowing Reid, Morgan thought, it probably had. 

Damn.

“What problem?” Morgan asked, going for an unaffected shrug as though it was the world’s most ridiculous question, which it really was. What it was not, however, was unreasonable.

Reid set his cup down, carefully, and started ticking off reasons on his fingers; Morgan _watched_. “You glare at paperclips, Morgan. Glare. You do the same thing to pens, pencils, even staplers. And straws! You were glaring at my stirrers just now. Which, in itself, is strange, but then Prentiss told me that you had something against office supplies, which makes no sense, and she said I ought to ask you, as she didn’t understand either.” 

“I don’t hate office supplies,” Morgan said honestly. And it was the truth, although he could tell Reid wasn’t impressed with his answer, if the way he picked up his mug with a shrug and turned away was any indication.

“It’s not the… objects,” Morgan said quickly, already inwardly cursing when Reid paused. Morgan pushed onward, knowing this was probably his one chance, and if he were lucky, it would be a quick death. “It’s you.”

“You hate me?” Reid asked, somehow sounding both amused and worried in the same breath.

“No,” Morgan said with a roll of his eyes, running a hand over his head. “No, man. I don’t hate you, and I don’t hate the damn supplies.” 

There was a strained silence, Morgan half-wishing Reid would drop it, and then, “But?”

It wasn’t that Morgan wanted to explain this, not really, because thinking about something was one thing, explaining it to the person in question was another. _But…_

But at the same time, he felt the excitement curling low in his stomach, the seconds when his heart beat a little quicker, the images flashed in his mind, and when he opened his mouth to tell Reid to drop it, “Let’s go get some decent coffee,” came out instead. He mentally shrugged and plucked Reid’s cup from his hands, trying not to compare the mug to paperclips and pens and straws as he dumped it onto the sink, making a face at the liquid sugar that slowly poured out. 

“Right now? I still have to …” 

“It’ll keep until Monday,” Morgan assured him, ushering Reid back to the bullpen to grab their jackets, and ignoring Prentiss’ thoughtful gaze as they did so. 

By the time they ordered (Morgan with water, Reid with cocoa) and selected a table far away from the barista and the crowds, Reid had launched into an animated lecture about Christmas and shopping statistics. 

“A typical family of three spends, on average, about 649 dollars on holiday gifts, decorations, cards, candy and food.” Morgan nodded along, watching Reid’s fingers curl around his cup for warmth. “The most common shopping days, after Black Friday of course, are typically December 22 , December 15, and December 21, which is why _I_ already have my shopping done…”

“It’s your hands.”

Reid stopped short, cup of hot chocolate frozen halfway to the table, a thin line of whipped cream and chocolate covering his upper lip. Morgan handed him a napkin.

“My hands?” Reid looked down at the thin long fingers protruding from his sweater. He turned them palm facing upward, and his brow furrowed in thought before his face cleared and his mouth worked again. “You have a hand partialism?”

“I…. what? No. No,” Morgan shook his head violently. 

“A hand fetishism isn’t that unusual,” Reid said after biting his lip for a moment, a pale blush on his cheeks. “A partialism to feet is more common, with some 68.3 million people in the world _admitting_ to some sexual attraction to feet or toes, and even more who are attracted to legs, but I could look for the …”

“Reid,” Morgan said, desperately interrupting. “I would be all right having some sort of hand fetish, or even foot fetish, if that was the case, all right? But you’re not listening to me, man.”

“I _am_ listening,” Reid said quietly. 

“Maybe,” Morgan agreed after a moment. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. “So you’re purposely misunderstanding me?”

“It’s hard to purposely misunderstand someone when they haven’t exactly said anything.”

Morgan smiled briefly at that. “It’s not a partialism, it’s not transference, it’s not pity, or sympathy. It’s attraction, and not just for your hands, but for _you._ ”

Morgan reached out and grabbed Reid’s drink just as Reid nearly knocked it over. “But… the paperclips? And straws? And … you’re always throwing them all over my desk, but… And you told Emily…”

“You’re constantly playing with things,” Morgan said. “You draw attention to your hands, even when you don’t mean to, and I _noticed_.”

“You are… you don’t have to… I…” Reid cleared his throat. “Fetishistic arousal, from objects and non-genital body parts…”

Morgan groaned silently and wrapped his fingers around Reid’s wrist, effectively silencing him out of shock. He stroked his thumb across the small strip of visible skin there, and waited. 

“I… uh…” Reid swallowed hard, causing Morgan’s cock to twitch, “the word fetishism was coined in the late 1800s and originates from the Portuguese word _feitico_ , meaning ‘obsessive fascination…’”

“And there’s degree of fetishistic arousal in almost all ‘normal individuals’ who may happen to find a particular bodily feature attractive,” Morgan interrupted. “Reid, I know, man. And as fun as it is to sit here and listen to you talk about fetishes, the only sexual deviance I want to discuss right now is this. Ours.”

Reid’s head jerked up; he’d been following the motion of Morgan’s fingers, now he searched Morgan’s face. As hard as it was, Morgan held himself still, letting Reid see the honesty and attraction in his expression. 

“It...” Reid swallowed again, Morgan watched his throat, “You think this… you think this is deviant? Wrong?”

“Unexpected, yes. Wrong, no,” Morgan said quietly. “Reid, I _want you_. I have for a long time, it just… it took pens, straws, and paperclips to get there.”

“I… okay.” 

Morgan waited for a moment, but Reid didn’t say anything else. “Okay? That’s it – okay?” 

He watched Reid’s face, still bright red, as he smiled up at Morgan. “You did…” he cleared his throat again, loudly, and Morgan would’ve laughed if he wasn’t waiting so damn impatiently to hear what it was Reid had to say. “You didn’t have to buy me coffee first. Or hot chocolate,” he amended, fingers curling around his half-full paper cup.

Morgan’s eyes followed the motion. “I like chocolate,” he said in a low tone, looking back up at Reid, watching as Reid processed and comprehended what he was saying. “I like chocolate and you. And you and straws, and you and pens, and you and that damn watch of yours, and you and your hands…” He stood, tugging Reid to his feet, and intertwined their fingers. 

“And… and me and paperclips?” Reid asked quietly.

“And _you,_ ” Morgan corrected, pulling Reid closer to him as they walked back outside.


End file.
